


A Table Set for Two

by Giddygeek



Category: Big Eden (2000)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giddygeek/pseuds/Giddygeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Henry laughingly pointed out that the only thing he wouldn’t be doing for this restaurant was the cooking, Pike said, “Yes,” in solemn, serious tones, and kissed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Table Set for Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/gifts).



Andrew Stewart dashes into Pike’s kitchen and skids to a stop inches away from the gleaming expanse of Pike’s work table. The boy – a young man now, really, Pike corrects himself, his eye on Andrew’s sparse but elaborately-groomed beard – waves his hand at the swinging door he’d just barreled through. 

“There’s a man from New York City out front,” Andrew whispers loud enough to be heard by half the town. “He has an iPad. He wants a table for one.”

Pike frowns, knife stilled in its work, hunks of dark chocolate flaking around it. “You’re a waiter here,” he points out. “I pay you to give tables to people who want them.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “No, no, I know that, Pike. The table isn’t the problem. It’s the iPad!”

Pike stares at him.

“And the New York,” Andrew adds, looking at Pike as if expecting him to be impressed.

Pike shakes his head. “You know people from New York,” he says, quiet and mystified. “It’s not Mars.”

Andrew leans forward and stares at Pike intensely enough that Pike edges away, uncomfortable. “There’s a man from New York out front,” Andrew says, slowly, enunciating every word. “Wanting to sit alone. With his iPad.”

“Get your hands out of my chocolate.” Pike slides the chopping block closer to himself and scowls. Andrew pops chocolate into his mouth, unimpressed with Pike’s most threatening look, and beams a smile at him. 

“Pike, you’re getting _reviewed_ ,” he says, joyful, glad to be the bearer of happy news.

Pike thinks about that for a moment, then carefully crushes another block of chocolate. “Would rather not.” 

Andrew stares at him, baffled. Pike ignores the boy, instead watching his knife flash under the bright lights overhead. It used to be dark and quiet back here, when he lived alone behind the store. Then Jim and the boys had rebuilt it around him one stainless steel appliance and fancy piece of cookware at a time, all despite Pike’s misgivings, and at Henry’s direction. 

And now look what’s happened, Pike thinks, shooing Andrew out of his way so that he can get to the stove. He stirs the chocolate into the port and stock mixture bubbling gently over a burner and scowls into the scented steam. Reviews. 

“Art should be shared,” Henry had said to him, when Pike first raised an objection to the noise and expense of remodeling.

“What I do isn’t art.” Pike sat back in his chair and waved his hand at their plates, still shy about it. “This is just dinner, Henry.”

Henry flashed a smile at him. “Widow Thayer and I make dinner, Pike. You make masterpieces. Let me help you showcase them.”

Pike would have protested further – might even have put his foot down – except that there was a Dutch oven in the new kitchen, waiting to be unpacked when the shelves went up. Its ceramic sides were a deep burgundy which seemed designed to make a man want to stew something, and Pike meant to try it out. 

And then there was the look in Henry’s eyes, the pride and hopefulness, the genuine delight he took in Pike’s work.

“Fine,” Pike said, his resistance crumbling. “But I’m not waiting tables.”

Henry waved that away. “Grace will recommend us a teenager. There must be one or two in town.”

“I’m not –” Pike tried to think of another obstacle. What went into running a restaurant? It wasn’t like he’d been to enough of them to form opinions about their operation. He thought he might’ve been to enough diners to have an idea how they ran, at least, but Henry wasn’t building him a diner kitchen. Henry was building Pike something beautiful. 

“I don’t know anything about folding napkins into swans,” he settled on, and Henry laughed.

“One cannot support oneself as an artist in New York without folding a few napkins into swans,” he informed Pike loftily. “I’ll handle all your napkin swan needs myself.” 

“I still want to eat my supper with you,” Pike said, and Henry’s smile softened, warmed into the sleepy kind of look which signaled that Pike was about to get kissed.

“I’ll make us a reservation,” Henry said. He stood up and came to stand beside Pike’s chair, resting his hand on Pike’s cheek, his fingertips edging into the soft hair flowing down from Pike’s temples. “We’ll have our own table for two, every night,” he promised, and Pike tipped his head back, wanting that kiss and getting it.

When Henry pulled back to take a deep breath, Pike said, “All right. But you have to name it.”

“All right,” Henry echoed, his face soft, his eyes glad.

“ _And_ you paint the sign,” Pike demanded, and when Henry laughingly pointed out that the only thing he wouldn’t be doing for this restaurant was the cooking, Pike said, “Yes,” in solemn, serious tones, and kissed him again. 

Two months later, Pike and Henry opened the restaurant behind Dexter General. The locals quickly took to calling it The Sisters, and Henry privately referred to it as Pike’s studio, but the name on the big blue sign over the door was The Pleiades.

And now, after years of being a local place – encroached upon only by Ben Stewart’s friends in Seattle and Portland, who sometimes trekked to Montana to try the food Ben raved about – The Pleiades is being threatened with a review. 

Pike likes thinking about what he can do with the food in his kitchen, the meat supplied by Big Eden’s hunters, the herbs from his own garden. He likes feeding his neighbors. He likes sitting down with Henry at the end of the night, and the obvious pleasure Henry takes in every aspect of the restaurant. But it makes him nervous to think of some stranger, a man who spends his life passing judgment on the fancy places of the world, waiting out front to see if Pike can compare. His hand wobbles as he slides a tray of venison into the oven, and he curses as he almost adds another burn to his knuckles by bumping them against the rack. What business does a reviewer have _here_? 

“He’s wearing a great scarf,” Andrew says of the reviewer. “His name’s Graham. He wants to know if he can sit at you and Henry’s table.”

Pike looks up from his sauce, offended, and Andrew shrugs. “I just told him I’d _ask_.”

“Tell him you’ve _asked_ ,” Pike rumbles, and points at the swinging door between the big kitchen and tiny dining area with his knife. “You knew what the answer would be. Now get out of here. Go. Leave that chocolate where it is.”

Andrew dances back out to the dining room, stolen chocolate squirreled away in his cheek. “Pike says he’s terribly sorry but that table’s reserved,” he calls out to someone Pike can’t see from the stove. “Let me seat you over here, by the fire.” His tone is a perfect mix of regretful and cheerful; he’s Dean Stewart’s son through and through, with just enough of Annie’s good sense to temper his easy ways. If he doesn’t wind up as mayor of Big Eden, it won’t be for lack of charm, or ability. 

Pike shakes his head as the door swings shut, ignoring the curious gaze of Jim Soam’s grandson Dave, who helps him in the kitchen on weekend nights. He bends over his sauce, letting the smell of chocolate and port warming together distract him from the idea of packing up and shutting the restaurant down before someone can pick it apart in public.

Henry’s read him some of the reviews from online; Pike can never bring himself to look them up. There hadn’t been any for years, and that was nice. Pike could hold onto the illusion that the restaurant was a private place, his own kitchen, where he just happened to feed a few dozen people a night. Then some of the local kids went off to college and started talking about the place where they’d waited tables in high school. Ben’s friends didn’t cross the street without posting to Snapgram about it, and eventually Pike lost his state of blissful ignorance about Yelp. 

Ben’s friends raved about everything from Henry’s sign – a replica of the painting which hung over their bed, which drew the eye like a sparkling, cheerful flame – to the centerpieces, which Henry had made from old half-finished projects of Sam’s. They raved about the fact that most of the year, Pike cooked whatever game was locally available. They loved the website, which Becky had made as a class project her first year of college. They praised the menu page, which said only, _Red meat, white meat, fish and pasta courses changing nightly. Prices variable._ for its simplicity and honesty. Americana, they thrilled. But progressive! Gay-friendly! A hidden gem!

Pike is perfectly happy to stay hidden.

Henry bustles in the kitchen door, bringing the smell of frost and pine with him. He has paint on his cheek and in his hair, and his lips are cold when he stretches up to give Pike a cheerful kiss.

“Graham’s here!” he says, joyful, as if he knows this reviewer. Pike shifts his growing ire from Mary Margaret – the most likely suspect – onto someone who really should have known better than to talk about his restaurant with New Yorkers.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Henry says. He strips off his jacket and drapes it over the antler they use as a coat-hanger. He digs through the stack of clean aprons in the cupboard underneath the jackets until he finds the new ones Grace made Pike for his birthday, a sharp black-and-white checkerboard pattern dotted with shiny silver stars.

“Come on, come on.” Henry reaches up to slip the elastic out of Pike’s hair so that it falls around his face, more gray than black these days, but still long and thick. He unties the apron Pike was already wearing, and his fingers brushing the small of Pike’s back bring a shiver that Henry doesn’t fail to notice, a flush rising on his cheek. “Don’t try to distract me with your wiles, Pike Dexter,” he chides, smiling up from under his lashes. “Change your apron and come say hi to an old friend of mine.”

“I like _this_ apron,” Pike says, putting up a token resistance; he knows from experience that the best parts of his life come when he fails to hold out against Henry, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let Henry boss him around. Or let Henry boss him around much, anyway. 

“Oh, okay,” Henry says, taking a step back and bouncing on his toes, excited. “That’s fine, but let’s –”

Pike sighs and strips his dirty apron off, then reaches out to take the checkerboard apron, tying it around his waist, where it stands in sharp contrast to his black jeans and well-worn black flannel. He waits patiently while Henry stares at him, eyes wide. 

“I won’t say anything to fluster you, but I want to,” Henry tells him after a moment, and Pike flushes a little, flustered anyway. Henry smiles and, without looking away from Pike, tells David Soams to watch the sauce, then takes Pike’s hand in his. He pulls Pike out of the kitchen to meet his doom.

Graham stands as he sees them approach. He’s a tall man, though not as tall as Pike, and ageless in the way of people who never go outside, or who get just enough plastic surgery. His skin is dark, his head gleaming and bald. He’s dressed in expensive dark jeans and a soft gray sweater. 

He is in fact wearing a scarf of the type that Andrew would admire, Pike notices, black and fringed, patterned with tiny white birds, wings outspread in flight. 

Graham holds out his hands to Henry with a smile, and Henry goes to him, letting himself be enveloped in a lingering hug that ends with a kiss to the cheek.

It’s blindingly obvious what kind of friend Graham had been. Pike would have liked to dislike him for that reason alone, teeters on the verge of it. Then Henry says, “Graham, I’d like you to meet Pike,” with such pride and pleasure that Pike smiles when Graham holds a hand out to him.

It’s a busy night, with five of their tables claimed, Andrew turning them over as quickly as is decent. Word has gotten around about Pike’s roast venison with a chocolate reduction and tiny, delicate roast potatoes. 

The sixth table stands empty and perfectly set, tucked away under the window across from the new fireplace, in the same spot where Pike had always eaten alone before Henry came back to town. 

Everyone at the occupied tables stares, and Pike tries not to flush as Graham says, “So this is the mystery man who stole my friend away.” 

Pike reconsiders disliking him, but his handshake is firm and friendly, and Graham seems sincere when he nods at his table and says, “You’ve got a lovely place here, Pike. And the food smells like it was made for a feast of the forest gods.”

Pike casts Henry a sidelong glance. Henry shrugs helplessly, giving Graham another quick squeeze before stepping away, coming to lean against Pike’s side. “Writers,” he says to Pike, eyes twinkling. 

“Painters,” Graham says, raising an eyebrow at Henry’s cheek, still streaked with scarlet. Henry laughs and rubs his face against Pike’s shoulder, which does nothing more than flake the dry paint.

“Touché,” he says dryly, and Pike feels his chest clench around their easy way of talking to each other. “But my paintings aren’t why you’re here, are they, Graham?”

“No, no. Please, sit,” and Pike’s back goes up a bit at being invited to sit at one of his own tables, but he sits across from Graham and his iPad, its screen black and glossy. Graham leans forward confidingly. “I ran into Mary Margaret at a function a few weeks ago, and she was overcome, talking about a duck pot-pie that she ate at a small restaurant in Middle of Nowhere, Montana.” 

He eyes Pike curiously, and Pike nods, remembering. Last year’s duck pot-pie had been almost as popular as this year’s venison experiment. 

Graham smiles. “Well, when I heard that – and that visiting this restaurant meant seeing an old friend, too! – I just had to make the journey myself.”

“No duck tonight,” Pike says, making an effort to be hospitable. “Venison’s the special. There’s a trout dish if you don’t like game meat.”

Graham sparkles at him. “Oh, I’m easy to please,” he says, and Pike says, “Okay,” and tries to edge away from the table, ready to go back to the safety of his kitchen and never come out again. 

Henry catches his hand. “Graham, be nice. Give Pike a chance to get to know you. Pike – tell him about how you started cooking.”

Pike looks at Henry, startled. Does Henry expect him to just _talk_ about that with a stranger? For publication? This business of reviews is worse than he thought. He looks back and forth across the table, while Graham watches him expectantly, and Henry holds his hand, waiting for Pike to bare his soul to the world. 

It isn’t comfortable, but for Henry’s sake, Pike can try. He says uncertainly, “I started for you.”

He can see right away that wasn’t what Henry was expecting him to say, although Henry leans in close in response and kisses him quickly, his mouth soft and smiling. 

“I meant more like, what was your inspiration,” Henry says. But he doesn’t give Pike a chance to say, “That doesn’t change my answer.”

“Pike started cooking for my grandfather when Sam was ill,” Henry tells Graham, his eyes still on Pike’s. “At first we didn’t even know he was behind the amazing meals he kept delivering – he let us think another old family friend was responsible. But there’s art in his food, Graham; true art. It was obvious right away. His first meals were better than my first ten years with a brush in my hand,” and Graham leans forward, fascinated, saying, “Yes, yes, I’ve eaten at places where the chef was an expert and places where the chef was an artist – there’s a difference!” 

The two of them leave Pike behind as they race off into a conversation about the intersection of skill and artistry, but Henry is still squeezing Pike’s hand, fingers entwined with his. Pike watches them talk, grateful that where he stumbles with words, Henry can run with them. 

Tension unwinds inside him as he listens to Henry explain what he feels about Pike’s food, in a way he’s never done before, to an old friend from a different world. And underneath everything Henry says about the good work Pike has done in his kitchen, Pike hears Henry talking about love. 

The sky is darkening outside and the stars are coming out to dance. The little lanterns on the tables flicker with light. The locals hide their smiles behind bites of food. Pike sits, feeling quiet and comforted. He lets the talk wash over him until Henry and Graham pause their flow of words, looking at him expectantly, seeking his input. 

They wait a long moment while Pike considers what he has to add. There must be something, he thinks, which he wouldn’t mind seeing in print someday. Something that’s interesting enough for someone else to know. He could talk about the simplicity of the life of most the animals he cooks, and how Henry paints the forest they move through. He could go on about the traditional ways to produce good crops, and how a basket of gourds brightens their kitchen at home. He could try to describe how the herb garden smells at the height of summer, when the fat lazy bees buzz while Pike collects mint for Henry’s favorite homemade ice cream. He might even be able to muster up some information about his technique and the equipment he’s come to prefer. 

But none of that gets to the reason why Henry and his friend can talk so much about what Pike’s cooking _means_. It echoes back the love Henry described but doesn’t explain it. Pike squeezes Henry’s hand, and gets to the heart of the matter. 

“I don’t know if this is art. I started doing it to say something to you, and you like to say that art speaks, so maybe that made it something more than just dinner. But if it’s still art, if it still speaks, it’s just echoing what I still have to say to you.”

Henry sits frozen, his head tilted. It’s good to be able to surprise him every now and again, Pike thinks with a quiet sense of pride. Henry surprises him often enough, after all. Pike frees his hand from Henry’s tight grip and rests it on his shoulder, squeezing gently, aware of the silence around them. Word of this will get around faster than opinions about his newest dish, he realizes, almost amused, and then he pushes his chair back and stands. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says to the wide-eyed man across the table. “Enjoy your meal.” 

Pike escapes back to his kitchen, with its big windows and skylights to let in the stars, twinkling off the gleaming counters and well-maintained tools. He pulls the venison out, thoughtful and deliberate in his movements. He takes the time to enjoy the heat of the oven and the smell of the sauce as he dresses up a plate for Graham, Henry’s friend, the reviewer from New York, and sends it out with Andrew, who takes it and disappears quietly, for once.

And at the end of the night, Henry comes back into the kitchen and helps Pike and Dave Soams clean up, setting things into place for the next night. When Dave and Andrew leave, Pike brings out the special plates he saves for his and Henry’s meals, so often eaten after everyone else is gone. They sit in the empty dining room, and smile shyly at each other across their table until it’s time to go home, where they smile at each other while they touch, expressing themselves in yet another way.

*

A month later, Henry prints out his friend’s blog post about the restaurant, and carefully pins it to the kitchen wall, beside the antler coat-hanger, over their jackets and the clean pile of aprons. The review is glowing, but discreet about their location, which Pike finds himself grateful for; he has enough customers these days, and could hardly do justice to more. But his favorite part, what he rereads as he leaves the store for the day and chooses his apron for an evening in the kitchen, is the first paragraph.

_I’ll preface this week’s post with a disclaimer that I wasn’t paid to go to Montana. I went for love: the affection I have for my old friend, the artist Henry Hart; the love of art that we share; the love of food which used to be mine alone, but which Henry now understands. I came away with a new passion for venison, a fresh perspective on the art of cooking, and a new image of romance: a table set for two men who love their work, men who love each other, men who love their place in a town which loves them back. It was one of the finest meals I ever ate and maybe someday, if I like you enough, I’ll take you there to experience it for yourself._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a big fan of venison myself, but I thought this recipe looked pretty amazing - [Roast Venison with Chocolate Sauce -](http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/oct/15/roast-venison-with-chocolate-sauce-recipe) and couldn't resist giving it to Pike.
> 
> Thank you very much to my beta readers, who never fail to remind me that it's good to slow down and enjoy what you're doing.
> 
> To my recipient - I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed your request! Happy Yuletide, and Happy New Year.


End file.
